


Crawl Inside

by FadedSepia



Series: Before the Rain Began [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 11:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19150510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Phil was bone tired, slumping into the door as he fumbled for his room key, leaning heavily on the handle as he pushed his way inside. He froze. Weak moonlight filled the room, caught and reflected on the edge of a single boot.Phil Coulson has reached the point in his career where even the unexpected moments are comfortingly routine.





	Crawl Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to spaceluna for beta-ing this overnight and reigning in my extreme love of adverbs. (Truly, the job completed was most excellently well done! _*self-induced cringe*_ )
> 
> Big thanks also to Jenny, Fox, and Sev for jamming out with me to 90s music, reminiscing about _the looks_ , and encouraging the old-school songfic posting style.

↞↢⟷↣↠

 _I would dial the numbers  
just to listen to your breath_

_And I would stand inside my hell  
and hold the hand of death_

↞↢⟷↣↠ **Late 1999** ↞↢⟷↣↠

The cellular phone rang – four, five, six times – before there was a click, the voicemail greeting familiar, brief and curt. _“Talk.”_ He hung up, flipping his phone closed and sliding it back into the holster clipped opposite his sidearm. No news was good news; the operation would be going ahead as scheduled.

Phil Coulson looked once, again, around the motel room that had been his home for the past two weeks with a sigh. Both beds were made, though he’d arranged all of the pillows onto the one near the wall. They always gave him a double; still,that meant he always got extra bedding, at least, even if he couldn’t use the spare bed.

His second suit hung neatly in the open closet, suitcase resting on the rack below. He would pack his things up before checkout. The rest of the sparsely furnished room was ordered, not perfectly so, and too sedate and standardized for it to matter much.

He did one last sweep of the room before he left: exit pathways clear, curtains open, lights off. He tested the window a final time, lips pursed. Still sticking. Ah, well, it was better than nothing. Even locked, there would have been little difference, but it was the effort that counted, proof that his invitation still stood. He checked his sidearm and credentials a final time, then stepped into the hallway. The hotel door latched behind him.

↞↢⟷↣↠

_Keeping my eyes open  
I cannot afford to sleep_

_Giving away promises  
I know that I can’t keep_

↞↢⟷↣↠

Fury had handled the debrief, leaving Coulson to handle the mess. Remarkably, it was both fairly contained and entirely dead for once. Supervising body disposal was still a large part of his job, even if they were, ostensibly, supposed to be bringing people in, rather than killing them.

The carpet squelched under his shoes, sticking as he walked. Close quarters fighting through here had meant knives, and had left more cast off and spray than usual. Phil waved over a pair of scrub-clad junior agents and moved on to the next room, heedless of the dark stains creeping up the edge of his cuff.

This space held more of what he’d come to expect; swift precision and minimal mess, even in the case of the through-the-eye shot on the body by the door. Arrows were much neater than bullets, in that respect. He braced his hand against the corpse’s shoulder, tugging the shaft out. The point was a bit mangled, but the rest of it was intact; no point in tossing it.

The cleaning crew were slowly making their way into the room around him. One of them, shrouded in full protective coveralls and mask, nodded to the arrow clutched in his hand. “Agent Coulson?”

“Save these.” Phil was already headed for the next body – clean shot bisecting lung and aortic arch – slowly tugging the arrow free, mindful of the spurt risk. “Set them aside. I’ll be taking them back with me.”

“Ye… yes, sir.”

↞↢⟷↣↠

_I don’t care what they think  
I don’t care what they say_

_What do they know about this love anyway?_

↞↢⟷↣↠

It was past ten by the time Phil finally got back to his hotel. The lower hem of his trousers was crusted almost solid, and he was left in his shirt sleeves. The jacket had been a lost cause after a particularly drippy section of hall; he’d needed something to cover his head.

Clearing out a nest of enemy operatives – filled with switch-back hallways, room-lined corridors, and combatants more than willing to die for their cause – was always a dirty, up-close job, with minimal opportunity for anything other than hands on fighting. Few of the dozen or so arrows tucked under his arm had come from anywhere beyond the wider rooms near the entryway; it had been knives and fists from the first basement on down.

Phil was bone tired, slumping into the door as he fumbled for his room key, leaning heavily on the handle as he pushed his way inside. He froze.

Weak moonlight filled the room, caught and reflected on the edge of a single boot. It washed out the colour and drew up the contrast of the figure hunched on the glass-topped desk, casting his arms stark white against the black of his tactical uniform, his blond hair silvered.

Letting the door close behind him, Phil reached back to throw the deadbolt and charlie-bar. He crossed to the desk, dropping the stack of arrows upright into the unused wastebasket, eyes never leaving his guest. “Would you like the first shower?”

Hawkeye hunched further, shaking his head.

He gave the other man a wide berth, skirting between his perch and the bed to toe off his shoes beside the closet door. Retrieving underclothes and his dop kit, Phil paused a moment in the bathroom doorway, silhouetted in fluorescent light. “You’re sure?”

The other agent nodded, barely lifting his head.

“Alright.”

↞↢⟷↣↠

 _You don’t know_  
_how far I’d go_  
_to ease this precious ache_

 _And you don’t know_  
_how much I’d give,_  
_or how much I can take_

↞↢⟷↣↠

There were few times when Phil Coulson gave in to the hedonism of excess. Post-mission showers were generally one of those times, especially when he was staying in a hotel; using hot water he didn’t have to pay for, then wrapping himself in fluffy towels he wouldn’t have to launder. One short shower to wash away the literal filth – the grime and sweat, the drying drips and flakes of other people’s blood – and a second shower just to sit beneath the spray, to let the pounding drops dull and soften the memories of the day.

It was amazing, the difference made by a good long shower, clean boxers, and a fresh undershirt. Phil folded his suit pants and button-down before tucking them into the laundry bag. He could scrub the stains out, when he had the time.

Opening the door, he saw that Hawkeye hadn’t moved from his spot atop the desk, though he had at least lifted his head up, gaze focused out the window. Phil stepped past him, again, re-latching the casement, and drew the curtains closed. “Shower’s yours.”

The taller man nodded, slowly unfolding to stand.

In the light from the bathroom, Phil could see the rust-brown splotches on his hands; the almost freckles trailing up his arms, dried matte and flaking. When Phil spoke, it wasn’t in question. “You’ll be staying tonight.”

Hawkeye shrugged, favouring one leg as he crossed to the bathroom.

“I’ll be up ‘til you finish.” The door closed on his words. He could hear the muffled clatter of body armour hitting the floor, the heavy shush as the shower sprayed to life. Phil stripped the comforter from the window-side bed, layering it over the bed nearer the door. He slid beneath the double layer of cover, leaving a wide span of mattress open behind him, the space bracketed between his back and the wall. He switched the light off and waited.

↞↢⟷↣↠

_Nothing fills the blackness  
that has seeped into my chest_

_I need you in my blood_  
_I am forsaking all the rest_  
_just to reach you_

↞↢⟷↣↠

Tremulous hands slid up under Phil’s t-shirt, settling low on his chest and pulling him flush against the man behind him, startling him out of the light doze. He hugged around those arms, shifting until their knees slotted together. The nightstand clock faintly glowed out two.

The other man’s breath was damp against the back of his neck, words mumbled softly enough that Phil wasn't sure whether he was talking to himself, or whether he was even aware he was speaking at all. “This is good.”

“It is.” Pressed against his back, Clint stiffened; he had probably thought Phil was still mostly asleep.

Phil squeezed gently, again, at the arms that held him. “Talk to me?”

Barton jerked his head side-to-side once, arms tightening on his waist, knees pushing Phil’s up even further as Clint curled in more tightly.

Other nights, on other missions, he might have been fine with it, but not this mission, not tonight. Phil had seen up close what Hawkeye saw better at a distance, but he hadn't been the one causing that damage. He would not – could not – leave it at this.

Phil leaned forward, just until the other man’s embrace slackened, then swiftly rolled over to face him. It wasn’t as if he could actually see very much with the curtains drawn and the night thick outside, but he didn't need to. Phil already knew how Clint would look; eyes downcast, teeth pressing a line into his lower lip, thin tracks across his cheeks from the few tears that had already escaped those soft grey-blue eyes.

He cupped that familiar face in his hands, thumbs tracing brows to jawbone, skimming skin and stubble and just damp bandages. Clint had scraped up his nose, again. Phil was careful in avoiding it, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Clint gulped in a wet, ragged breath, releasing it as something caught between hysterical sobbing and a choked off laugh, chin ducking into his chest.

Phil curled his fingers gently below Clint's ears. He could feel the pulse hammering beneath his fingertips as he tilted the other man's face up towards him. A warm, wet trickle skittered across the back of his hand. Phil leaned in, head canted to one side, so that he could press the barest of kisses to Clint's trembling lips.

The facade Clint had plastered over the events of day shattered, sharp and brittle, leaving him to lurch forward into Phil’s chest with a wounded wail. Clint clung to him, hands clutching at his shirt, legs tangling with his own, wracked with sobs and shaking.

It took more effort than he'd been certain he had, but Phil rolled onto his back, pulling the other man atop him. He rubbed slow strokes down Clint's spine, taking steady, even breaths, offering what calm he could.

He wasn’t sure how long they lay there, rocking together. By the time Barton had cried himself out, Phil’s undershirt clung soggily to his shoulder. He leaned down, lips brushing Clint’s forehead. “Glad you're home.”

Clint pressed a kiss just below his ear, releasing his clutched hold on Phil’s t-shirt to embrace him, again.

↞↢⟷↣↠

 _Come to my window_  
_Crawl inside_  
_wait by the light of the moon_

 _Come to my window_  
_I’ll be home soon_

↞↢⟷↣↠

Phil woke up to the buzz of the alarm, screaming out into an otherwise empty room. Sunlight shown in through the parted curtains, glaring mirror bright off the glass top of the desk. The casement on the window was barely cracked, the deadbolt latched, the wastebasket empty. His bed was still warm enough; the second comforter working once more to keep him from waking when Clint left.

Sitting up, he lifted his phone from the nightstand, its pulsing blue light alerting him to a waiting message. He punched the home-key, toggling on speaker phone as he entered his voicemail unlock code. The line was quiet, the only sound a soft, steady breath, before a familiar voice spoke the brief phrase. _”Thank you.”_ The message ended, and Phil flipped his phone closed, setting it on the bedside table.

↞↢⟷↣↠

 _I’ll be home_  
_I’ll be home_  
_I’m coming home_

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the lyrics are rearranged, but the inspiration and inserted lyrics are from [_**Come to My Window**_ by Melissa Etheridge.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FaY5-LGYJKc)


End file.
